It’s quieter with him than it should be.

Not in the obvious way. There’s still the ER, still the noise, still the constant pull of everything that needs to be done, but between you and Brendon, it settles into something more contained.

He doesn’t give much. Doesn’t take much either. That’s why it works.

Orthopaedics stays upstairs, and most days, that’s where he belongs. Removed from the chaos, operating in a space where things are clean, fixable. When he comes down, it’s brief. Efficient. You work together like you always do—minimal conversation, no wasted movement.

It should stay like that. It almost does.

Today isn’t anything unusual. A consult you could’ve passed off, but didn’t. He shows up without comment, like he expected it. You don’t question that either.

The case is straightforward. You move around each other easily, falling into that same quiet rhythm. Anticipating, adjusting, never needing to ask. It’s familiar in a way that doesn’t draw attention unless you stop to think about it. You don’t, but you notice the small things.

The way he stays a second longer than necessary when the patient is already handled. The way his focus shifts—not away, just less fixed. Like he’s aware of you outside of the work for a moment instead of only through it.

It’s subtle. So is the way you step a little closer than you need to when you pass him something. Not enough to be obvious. Just enough that your shoulder brushes his instead of missing.

He stills. Only for a second. Then keeps going. No reaction. No acknowledgment. But he doesn’t move away either.

That’s how it always is—small shifts, barely there, easy to ignore if either of you wanted to. Neither of you does.

By the time the patient is ready to go upstairs, the moment should end. It usually does. Clean. Contained. Something that doesn’t follow either of you past the doorway.

You step out first—but not toward the triage desk, or another patient.

Instead, you cut down the side corridor, past the crash carts and supply shelves, into the narrower stretch where the ER noise dulls into something distant. It’s not hidden, not really, but it’s quieter.

The door to the closet gives easily under your hand.

Shelves stacked tight, overhead light too bright. It feels temporary. Contained.

You take a second. Just enough to breathe. The door opens again before you can think too much about it. Closes.

He doesn’t say anything. Of course he doesn’t. Brendon doesn’t ask questions he already knows the answer to.

He leaned back against the door, arms crossed over his chest, head tilted in that way that could almost be called casual if his stare wasn’t so unflinching.

You could leave. He could too. Neither of you moves.

The space closes by inches, not all at once. Subtle. Controlled. Like neither of you is willing to break the balance too quickly. There’s no urgency to it, no need to turn it into something bigger than it is.

Just proximity. Heat. The awareness of him in a way that doesn’t exist anywhere else.

Outside, the ER keeps moving. Voices, footsteps, something distant calling for attention.

In here, it holds.